The Meuse flows, passing landscapes. Up to a century ago, it flowed too, past hems and seams, sleeves and skirts. It rippled over knuckles.
For a long time, centuries, really, women (always women) washed their dirty laundry in the Meuse’s crisp, cold water: on Mondays, loading a household’s worth of textiles onto a wheelbarrow, pushing it to the river, a fast-moving stretch, and spend the day on their knees: soaking, kneading, beating. With wooden clubs, they’d pound the dirt from the fibers. Thwack! Thwack! For soap, they used ash and urine.
Every Monday, come rain, shine, or ice. How beautiful it would have been to film the Meuse from above on such a day. To follow the river from start to finish: the shimmering water, the white sheets, the moving bodies, to zoom in on these kneading hands. And how tedious it must have been to do that work of washing. Some say the washing machine is the greatest invention in history, that it deserves a statue.
Things are different now.
1. The Meuse has become seriously polluted—not by urine, not by ash, nor by the stains from the wash.
2. Dirty underwear no longer leaves the house. Washing is now an indoor, solitary activity.
This July too, someone is by the Meuse every day. SoAP, TAAT, and the Meuse River collaborate on Maaswacht, a long-term project where people wait by the river every day. Want to try it? Email maaswacht@gmail.com.